


Illation

by hollyesque



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John is a massive dick, Non-compliant with TLD or TFP, Post-TST, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock Whump, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Why do I keep hurting Sherlock, Why does this read like my jurisprudence paper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:11:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9575234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyesque/pseuds/hollyesque
Summary: Here, of course, is where the idea blooms thick and inky in his mind, and has nothing to do but claw at the inside of his cranium.





	1. Into the Breach

The folly of logic is that, when properly applied, it can be used to justify nearly anything. The folly of genius – aside from (or perhaps a subsection of) its need for audience – is that, when the mind is left uninterrupted and an idea starts to formulate, it will fester and grow into a veritable living thing if no one is there to protest.

And so here sits Sherlock Holmes; logician, genius, and utterly alone.

Were he sentimental, the word _abandoned_ would ring a bit more true. _Rejected,_ even. _Exiled._

He’s not sentimental, though. So. Alone, then.

The letter John had Molly deliver sits on the desk before him. He’s opened it, read it, read it again, and read it several more times after that purely for the purpose of searing the words into his brain. John has always put his feelings into his writing – even on case posts when Sherlock believes that he should focus solely on the facts – and so the depth of his rage is a near-physical thing as he makes it clear that Sherlock is the sole possessor of the blame in the death of his wife. As he disavows Sherlock of his title of godfather to Rosie and all access to her. As he, in no uncertain terms, calls Sherlock an uncaring monster.

A small portion of his mind knows that it was Norbury’s choice to pull the trigger, and that it was Mary’s choice to jump in front of him, but every time he moves to be hurt by John’s words, logic rises up to meet him and presents a chain of reasoning so clear it may as well have bullet points.

Because:

If Sherlock had not attacked Norbury verbally, she might not have been motivated to shoot him and there would have been no bullet for Mary to jump in front of.

And:

If he had not found her after she ran off then she would have been safe from Ajay and would never have been in the aquarium in the first place.

And:

If he had not convinced John to go back to her after she shot him then he would have hated her enough that if Ajay caught up to her, her death would not have affected him as harshly.

And:

If he had not jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s hospital, John would not have started work at the new clinic where he met Mary and would not have been so emotionally distraught that he fell into the arms of an assassin.

And:

If Sherlock had never met John or had never taken John on that first case, then Moriarty would never have been able to use him as leverage, and even if Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were motivation enough, his death wouldn’t have affected John because John wouldn’t have known or cared for him.

It’s a beautiful, terrible line of reason, and it all circles back to him.

An even more terrifying chain of reasoning follows as such: John is Sherlock’s weak point, and with Mary gone, Rosie is John’s sole weak point. This means that, should any Magnussen-minded criminal wish to get to Sherlock, all they would have to do is threaten Rosie. This is absolutely unacceptable, and it will only cause everyone involved unending pain and make John resent Sherlock even more than he already does.

Mary told him to save John by making John save him, but John’s hatred for him is so strong that there’s a good chance he won’t come to his rescue and it will be a waste of energy. There are far more efficient solutions to the current predicament—or, more specifically, one solution that, with a little work on the details, trumps them all.

See: one can have John Watson, his daughter, his wife, and his (admittedly few) friends, and disregarding the common problems all modern people face like taxes or trouble at work, the result is general happiness. The moment Sherlock and his care for John are factored into the equation, the result invariably comes out painful. If not immediately, then eventually. Without fail.

Theoretically, the solution is simple: remove Sherlock’s caring attitude towards John. The flaw with that theory, however, is that statistical analysis and scientific experimentation have yielded undeniable evidence that such a separation would be a virtual impossibility. Time and time over, criminals and masterminds and villains have tested the hypothesis, and the conclusion is always the same: put John Watson in danger, and Sherlock Holmes will come.

So. Sherlock cannot be present in John’s life without caring for him. He can also be absent ( _Exiled)_ from his life, but his care for John will likely be ever-present. As long as Sherlock Holmes exists, he will care for John Watson, and as long as he cares for John Watson, John will experience pain.

Unacceptable.

Here, of course, is where the idea blooms thick and inky in his mind, and has nothing to do but claw at the inside of his cranium. If, he realizes ~~staring at John’s letter~~ his love for John causes John pain and he is inextricably attached to his love for John, then the only way to _actually_ save John isn’t to make him save Sherlock, like Mary thought. It’s for Sherlock to stop existing entirely.

 

* * *

  

The tragedy of it is: if anyone at all (aside from Mrs. Hudson, who would fuss and cry but ultimately bluster in the face of Sherlock’s logic) had been present to speak this conclusion aloud to, the idea might at least be thrown into doubt if not quelled entirely.

But, folly of genius and all that. So. He sits alone in his flat.

And the idea feeds.

 

* * *

 

 

Of course, it’s not the simplest thing in the world to arrange one’s own death without anyone catching on.

This time, he has to keep it from Mycroft as well; telling him last time was at least justified by Sherlock’s need for a confidante while he operated as the living dead.

~~The goal, this time, is not to live.~~

But he did make a vow, and there’s always the irritating chance that someone Sherlock put behind bars or a family member thereof will attempt to exact revenge on John after Sherlock is gone. Sherlock’s death will take care of future threats, but one can only manage past history, not erase it.

Mary taught him this much.

“What on earth is this?” Mycroft demands, staring at the document.

Sherlock shrugs. “John no longer wishes to be associated with me—“ he begins as though the words don’t taste like acid.

“Which is why he will not appreciate _my_ interference with his affairs at all,” Mycroft interrupts impatiently.

“Incorrect,” Sherlock declares, “As I was saying, his lack of involvement leaves me with almost no backup when I’m on a case and therefore makes it far more likely that I’ll be injured or, very possibly, killed.”

“This is utter _nonsense,”_ Mycroft spits, “you will not be _killed_ by some petty criminal trying to outrun the law, Sherlock. That is far beneath you.”

“In case it has escaped your notice, brother _dear_ ,” Sherlock snaps, “the people I’ve been dealing with extend far beyond the realm of _petty criminals_.” He sneers, and then adds, “Besides, desperation makes people do curious things. I want every eventuality prepared for.”

Mycroft stares at him for far too long as the words hang in the air, sounding far more ominous than Sherlock had originally intended. Finally, he says, “What are you not telling me?”

Sherlock huffs a laugh. “Do give yourself some credit, brother,” he deflects, “of all people you ought to be the sole possessor of the skill of seeing through me.”

“I’m not,” Mycroft says severely, “and you know it.” He doesn’t say who the actual “sole possessor” is. Doesn’t need to.

Eventually, Sherlock says, “Perhaps this whole…business,” he settles on, “has made me far more aware of my own mortality. I thought her to be indestructible, Mycroft,” he adds, “She was better than me, and even _she_ wasn’t good enough. So, given where my line of work is likely to lead me, I will not leave John exposed.”

Mycroft doesn’t say anything; he merely stares and stares and stares at Sherlock with a deeply-furrowed brow. Sherlock doesn’t squirm under his brother’s scrutiny. ~~Perhaps he does a little.~~

“Sentiment,” Mycroft finally accuses.

Sherlock sighs. “Sentiment,” he concurs.

Mycroft signs the contract.

 

* * *

  

Of course, he thought about simply faking it and leaving Britain forever, delving deep into the pits of MI6 and traversing the world as a dragon-slayer.

He tied his own noose, though, by pulling that very stunt years before. Now, there will be public (and government) outcry for evidence, for a body, for confirmation that he’s not faking this time. And even if he manages to escape public scrutiny and go undercover, his face has been plastered so far across the globe that it will be an enormous effort to go undetected.

It’s got to be real, this time.

~~He wishes he could see Rosie one last~~

 

* * *

  

It helps, sometimes, to keep his thoughts ordered on paper, so he keeps a notebook.

He writes down the entire chain of reasoning, muses over any ways around the conclusion and finds none.

He makes a copy of the contract and sticks it between the notebook’s pages ~~alongside Mary’s dvd and John’s letter~~ , keeping the original somewhere safe. No good to burn the original when he burns the book.

He realizes quickly that his death is going to have to be an accident. It can’t happen on a case with the yard; he won’t make Lestrade lose his job again. He would try to engage some serial killer or criminal mastermind, but it would seem—infuriatingly—that Sherlock’s taken care of the majority of them.

It needs to be his own fault, a slip of his own mind; he will take no guests with him to Samarra.

He scribbles _Accident_ in his notebook, and leaves it at that. He will know what it means.

 

* * *

  

His will isn’t a problem. It’s been the same since he departed on his two-year-long “tour”. From then to now, it remains: everything he has—everything he _is_ —belongs to John Watson.

~~It should be enough to pay for a nanny for Rosie~~

~~And school for Rosie~~

~~And a nicer house where Mary doesn’t still walk the halls~~

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t think of it as a _sacrifice,_ per se. To him, it feels more like a necessity. He doesn’t _want_ to die, but he would if it meant John’s safety. That hasn’t changed in the course his life took from the roof of Bart’s to the sidewalk on which he sees John a few days after his meeting with Mycroft.

He sees John from the other side of the street, about to cross at the light. He isn’t with Rosie, and he looks tired.

He doesn’t seem to see Sherlock, but for a moment, Sherlock wishes selfishly that he _knew._ That he knew what Sherlock was about to do for him, that he knew the depth of Sherlock’s commitment to his happiness. He wishes he was better at expressing his ~~feelings~~ thoughts, so that he could make John understand that, even if there hadn’t been a plan in place to survive the Fall, Sherlock would’ve jumped anyway. The second Moriarty put John under fire, he would have jumped anyway.

  

* * *

 

 

He solves a few more cases – either with the yard or from his flat—and tries his best not to die on anyone else’s watch. He knows, though, that his days of dragon-slaying are composed of borrowed time and nothing more. He knows, every time he wakes up, that he is drawing ever-nearer to Samarra.

 

* * *

  

He tries not to think about the fact that he’s _literally going to kill himself_.

It sits in the back of his mind, alive and alarmed, occasionally screeching w _hat are you doing?!_ at him in an attempt at self-preservation. His heart beats an insane staccato when it occasionally dawns on him that he’s going to _die,_ beats hard and fast like it knows it will soon be out of the job.

_What are you doing?!_

Saving John Watson. I am saving John Watson, and I would do it again.

 

* * *

 

 

He texts John in a final, not-desperate bid to see if there’s any way John will allow him back into his life. He doesn’t know what he thinks it will accomplish—even if John forgave him, the danger to him would still be present and Sherlock would still have to go. Perhaps he simply wants to see John, talk to him one last time, die knowing that the man he’s dying _for_ doesn’t loathe him.

So he texts: _I know why you wish for me to no longer be a part of your life. If you wish, though, to proverbially “clear the air” and give us both a chance to say what needs to be said, I will be at Angelo’s tomorrow night from 6:00-8:00. You don’t need to come, but if you do, I will listen to everything you say.—SH_

He arrives at Angelo’s the next night and explains the situation to him (“ _I might not order anything; I’m just hoping someone who’s upset with me will come.”_ ), and he sits at a table in the corner and waits.

Of course, John doesn’t come, and Sherlock leaves alone.

 

* * *

 

He texts John: _I understand._

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, it actually _is_ an accident.

He’s standing on the kerb at a busy intersection when he receives a text from Lestrade about an interesting disappearance. Whilst reading it, he thinks that he sees people start to move across the street out of the corner of his eye and follows the flow without looking up from his phone.

It’s not until the driver honks at him that he raises his gaze and realizes no one had actually moved.

It’s a burst of relief, another burst of terror, a pedestrian’s cry, and barely enough time to think with alarm _I didn’t burn the book_ before he—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello.  
> I'm currently in political science hell and everything is drawn back to reasoning and logic and legality and blah blah blah and then I'm also very very (very) sad about the way series 4 played out. Here's what happens when those two things (plus my undying love for angst) collide, I suppose.  
> I'm terribly sorry that I keep hurting Sherlock like this, and I'm also terribly sorry if this reads like an H.L.A. Hart essay. I'm just so, so sleepy.  
> Comments are eternally and unequivocally cherished.


	2. All the King's Men

_“Hello, Dr. Watson? I’m calling from the A &E at Bart’s Hospital, and you’re listed as the emergency contact for a Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I’m terribly sorry to inform you that Mr. Holmes was involved in a serious accident this afternoon. I’m afraid I can’t give any more details over the phone, but I’d recommend you come quickly. “_

**From: Molly**

**Hi John, I’m at work and a friend of mine who works in the A &E just told me Sherlock was rushed in. I know you’re not happy with him, but I’m really scared right now. Please, just, come if you can.**

 

**From: Mike**

**Hey mate, just overheard on break that Sherlock’s in A &E. You here? Let me know if there’s anything I can do. :)**

**From: Mycroft**

**Bart’s. Get here. Now.**

 

* * *

 

 

His first thought is: _No, not this again._

The second is: _Not him, too. Please._

The urgency is so strong that he’s got one of his shoes on already before the third thought strikes him: _I’m not even his friend anymore._

He sits there for a moment after that, shoes half on, and feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

He practically fucking _disowned_ the man, took himself and Rosie out of his life, willingly forfeited every claim he might have once had to being Sherlock’s friend. Now, Sherlock’s hurt—badly, in the a&e, was in a “serious accident”—and John is going to…what? Just show up?

He wrote Sherlock the nastiest letter he’s ever written in his life, yet everyone—even _Mycroft—_ asked him to come.

He tells himself that that will make it okay as he packs Rosie’s bag and drops her off at the neighbours’—the ones with the cats, not the drug addict son—apologizing just as profusely as he always does when he shoves her at them.  As he gets in the car he wonders when the _It’s alright, she’s a love_ will wear off.

 

* * *

  

Molly is the first person he sees when he enters the waiting room, and when he catches the look on her face he almost fears the worst.

She’s biting her nails in agitation, shifting from foot to foot, and her hair has the look of having been tousled several times in an attempt to relieve stress. Her face is streaked with tears.

_God, no._

“What—?” he begins to ask, but she shakes her head, drawing a shaky breath in a clear effort to regain calm.

“It’s bad,” she says, and John’s heart sinks, “It’s really, really bad. I don’t…he’s in surgery, I don’t know much yet, but.” She inhales deeply again and runs a hand through her hair, “His brother said he was hit by a car.”

“Christ,” John swears vehemently. “Fucking shit,” he adds for good measure.

“John,” Molly starts.

“Just,” John cuts her off, “give me a moment.” He finds his way to one of the plastic chairs strewn about the waiting room and sits, pinching the bridge of his nose hard. “I need a moment.” He repeats, because he does need a moment; Sherlock fucking Holmes is in surgery because he was hit by a car and it’s _really, really bad,_ and Molly is crying and he didn’t go to Angelo’s when Sherlock asked so now if Sherlock dies he’ll die thinking John hates him because he _called him a monster_ and there’s _no_ _fucking way_ this is real _._

It’s just so utterly absurd, so…just fucking unbelievable. It’s 2:25 in the fucking afternoon on a weekday, and he’s sitting in the waiting room at Bart’s bloody hospital waiting to find out if the man he ejected from his life is going to die or not. From a _car. A fucking car._

That’s not how Sherlock Holmes dies. Not by _accident._ He must be _fucking joking._

“I can’t,” he starts, looking up at Molly, but he doesn’t know where the sentence is going. _Can’t lose him? Can’t deal with this? Can’t believe it?_

Molly’s face is so compassionate that he thinks he might vomit. “John,” she says again.

“I know,” he replies even though she didn’t actually say anything, “I know.” 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a sign of the apocalypse that Mycroft’s tie is loose, his hair is a mess, and he doesn’t have his umbrella.

“Dr. Watson,” he says when he finally appears hours later, after the sun has dipped below the horizon and John has already resigned himself to sleeping the night on this plastic waiting room chair. His mouth is a straight, bloodless line and he indicates that John follow him with a rough jerk of his head.

_Please. Please. Please._

He hears Mycroft speaking as though through a tin can, but when the words “life support” are thrown into the air, John releases a massive breath and goes a little weak at the knees.

“So he’s alive,” he says breathily. Mycroft gives him an icy glare.

“There is a very good chance, doctor,” he says, “that he will not stay that way for long.”

“Can I see him?” the words burst from between his lips before he knows what he’s doing.

Mycroft’s nostrils flare, and for a moment John genuinely worries the man might punch him.

“Why,” he hisses, “in _G_ _od’s name_ would I let you see him?”

John stares in shock, taken aback by just how _angry_ Mycroft is. In all the time John has known the man, he’s never seen him act in any manner that wasn’t cool or collected. Now, Mycroft is _seething._

John swallows and forces himself to meet Mycroft’s gaze. “You told me to come,” he says simply, “you must have had some reason.”

 

* * *

  

The chart’s a mess. It’s an absolute fucking mess. The man on the bed is a mess, too, but John doesn’t think he wants to look at him just yet.

Christ. _Christ._ There doesn’t seem to be an inch of Sherlock that isn’t fucking broken. If he wakes up, he might not even be Sherlock anymore, and even if he is he might never be able to move the way he did before.

It reads like a fucking bingo card. B3 for this shattered bone, G5 for traumatic brain injury, I1 for this rib. Sherlock’s got five in a row on every fucking row. Kidneys. Brain. Pelvis. Ribs. Spine. _Jesus._

John can barely look at him. Can barely look at the tube protruding from between his lips, at the hands that are as white as the sheets they rest on, at the portion of his head that’s completely shaved so the doctors could try and fix his great big stupid fucking brain.

He’s never seen a pattern of bruising this gruesome, never seen this many wires and tubes attached to one person, and he thinks he may genuinely vomit this time, but he sits in the chair next to Sherlock’s bed and takes his (freezing) hand because he owes him this much. Because Mary died so Sherlock would live and now Sherlock might _not_ live, and it took that realization to wake John’s stupid fucking selfish arse up.

It never occurred to him until now that Sherlock’s life was the last gift Mary gave him, and John threw him away.

The knowledge pools like lead in his stomach as he raises the hand he’s holding—the one that wasn’t crushed between his ribs and the bonnet of the car—and presses the long fingers to his lips as though in prayer.

“Please,” he whispers through the digits, “please, Sherlock, just…stay. Please. I won’t leave you ever again, I swear it. I swear it. Please.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, but John repeats the plea all night anyway.

 

* * *

  

 “I’m going to search his flat,” Mycroft announces a week later, “I’m not satisfied that this was an accident,”

John sighs, glancing at ~~his best friend’s~~ Sherlock’s battered face. Some of the less serious contusions have begun to heal and a few of the bruises have begun to fade to green, but John would give everything he owned just to see Sherlock get up and admonish Mycroft for going through his things.

“Mycroft, even the other pedestrians said he was looking at his phone,” he says wearily. Lestrade’s been beating himself up about it for days, voice calling everyone for the slightest thing because he’s terrified of texting now.

“Oh, I’ve spoken with the driver,” Mycroft says airily, “I have no doubt that it was not a deliberate attack.” His voice becomes grave in the face of John’s confusion, and he adds, “That does not, however, make it an accident.”

John feels every muscle in his body go very, very still. “What the hell are you trying to say?” he asks, voice going low and feeling violence rise up his throat like bile.

Mycroft doesn’t back down. “A few days before this took place,” he gestures to where Sherlock’s broken form lays and John wants to shout _that’s your fucking brother, you arrogant prick_ , “he visited my office and had me sign a contract.”

John rubs the pad of his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles and waits for Mycroft to continue, but it would appear the politician has paused for dramatic effect.

“Well?” he spits impatiently.

“Well,” Mycroft continues, “the contract was to ensure that, in the event of Sherlock Holmes’ death, I would do everything in my power to protect John and Rosamund Watson from any and all enemies, both past and future.”

_In the event of Sherlock Holmes’ death._

John stares at the blue veins that stand out against Sherlock’s hand, thinks about that text asking him to come “clear the air”, and clenches his jaw against the rising feeling of dread.

“That’s…” he begins, but has to clear his throat against the sudden dryness he finds there, “that’s…”

“Extremely convenient?” Mycroft offers, raising an eyebrow. He turns to exit the room, casting “I shall let you know what I find,” over his shoulder.

John stares at Sherlock, the sound of the heart monitor suddenly earsplitting.

“ _No,_ Sherlock,” he begs, “No. No. _No._ ”

 

* * *

  

The days have begun to bleed into one another like colors on canvas, and he finds himself split between two worlds with one foot in each.

He can’t shove Rosie at everyone around him all the time—he has to at least _try_ to be a dad—so he goes home every now and then to be with her. Every time he does this, he feels terrible about leaving Sherlock, even if someone else is there so he’s not alone. Every time he drops her off at someone else’s place to go be with Sherlock, though, he feels like he’s letting his daughter down.

He’s sorely tempted to just bring her along sometimes—let the two worlds converge and blend—but babies have no business being in the ICU, where death may choose any day of the week to walk the linoleum floors.

He’s managed to drop Rosie with Mrs. Hudson with minimal fussing ( _“Is he better?” “He’s, ah…no worse, I suppose.” “Oh,_ John, _” “I know, Mrs. H. Best get going.”)_ , but whatever semblance of good mood he might have been attempting to build is decimated by the sight of Mycroft standing at the door to Sherlock’s room.

John opens his mouth to speak, but as he draws nearer the look on Mycroft’s face makes the words shrivel up and die.

Mycroft is pale as a sheet, bug-eyed, and for a moment John fears he might actually see him cry. In his hand he clutches a black, leather-bound notebook.

 

* * *

 

 _Premise 1: As long as Sherlock Holmes exists he will ~~love~~_ _care for John Watson._

_Premise 2: As long as Sherlock Holmes cares for John Watson, he will come when John is in danger._

_Premise 3: as long as Sherlock Holmes will come when John is in danger, enemies of Sherlock Holmes will exploit this fact and deliberately target John ~~and Rosie god never Rosie~~_

_Premise 4: If an enemy of Sherlock Holmes targets John Watson to draw Sherlock out, then John will experience pain._

_Conclusion: As long as Sherlock Holmes exists, John Watson will experience pain._

_Solution set: 1) ~~Sherlock Holmes ceases caring for John Watson~~_ _impossible. See premise 1._

_2) Sherlock Holmes ceases to exist._

* * *

 

 

No. no. no. no. no. no. no. _No._

God, no, Jesus fucking Christ, please, god, no.

_Sherlock._

Every single word feels like a knife to the gut, feels like he’s sitting at the bottom of a well with water pouring in and he’s never, ever climbing out.

_Premise: Since he entered it, Sherlock Holmes has been the primary source of pain in John Watson’s life._

It’s awful. It’s so, so, so bad.

_Premise: If Sherlock Holmes had not verbally abused Vivianne Norbury, she would not have been motivated to fire the shot that killed Mary Watson._

How in god’s name is he supposed to undo _this?_

_Premise: If Sherlock Holmes had not influenced John to go back to Mary after she shot Sherlock, her death would not have caused John pain._

Page after page after page, Sherlock spells out his own death sentence. And John helped write it.

He finds tucked between the pages a copy of what must be the contract Mycroft was talking about, alongside a dvd titled “Miss Me?”, which sends a thrill of alarm through him. He stashes it into his coat pocket to watch when he goes home—if Moriarty is somehow behind this, somebody will pay.

When he finds his letter a few pages later, he nearly cries. He doesn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to know what it means that the creases are so worn that the thing’s nearly falling apart.

When he comes across the last page that has any writing on it and finds that it contains nothing but the word _Accident_ underlined several times, he throws up quietly in the en suite.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _If you’re watching this, I’m probably gone.”_

The moment Mary appears on the screen, John pauses the video and gets up to pour himself a generous helping of scotch.

 

* * *

 

 

Three weeks or so in, Sherlock starts to fight the respirator. John feels like he could fucking river dance, almost disproportionately overjoyed by this tiny sign that Sherlock is rallying.

“Even if he wakes,” Mycroft reminds him grimly, “there is no guarantee that he will still be Sherlock Holmes.”

“ _Fuck_ that,” John spits, and Mycroft turns to him with what looks like actual surprise on his face. “He’ll be Sherlock Holmes whether he’s exactly the same or completely dependent for the rest of his life. I don’t buy that for a second, Mycroft,”

“And just how _long,_ ” Mycroft hisses, and suddenly he’s very much in John’s space and he’s very, very angry, “will this new-found loyalty last _, Dr. Watson_?” he spits John’s name like a curse. “ _How,_ precisely, am I to believe that the next time things do not go according to plan, you will not simply heap the blame onto him and abandon him once more?”

John opens his mouth to protest, but Mycroft continues before he can speak.

“You have repeatedly insisted upon my brother’s humanity and reveled in pointing out his fallibility,” he accuses, “but the moment something did not work out for _you,_ you piled all the responsibility onto him as though he was supposed to be a bona fide superhero with fortune telling powers to boot.” He steps back from John and straightens his suit jacket with an angry jerk.

John gapes; he wants to defend himself, wants to scream and rail with indignity and cry, _that’s not true at all,_ but the words taste too much like lies as they sit on his tongue. He and Mycroft simply stare at each other, the only noises in the room those of the various machines holding Sherlock together.

Mycroft finally says, “If he wakes up and he _is_ himself, he will no doubt forgive you instantaneously. Do not, for a moment, believe that I have such a short memory.”

When he leaves, John stands in the middle of the room for a long moment. Then, he sits back down next to Sherlock, takes his hand, and sobs his guilt into Sherlock’s palm.

 

* * *

  

He’s obsessed with Rosie—of course he is—but he’s also terrified of her.

She absolutely takes his breath away; she’s everything pure and special in this world, and he hasn’t got a clue what he did to deserve being trusted with a creature this perfect.

He stares at her sometimes after he’s put her down in her crib for the night, watches her socked feet kick in her sleep and nearly chokes on his fears. He wants desperately to be the father she deserves, but what if he ends up destroying her like he did Sherlock?

He talks to her, sometimes, when she’s fighting sleep in his arms and clutching his shirt collar in her tiny fists.

“There was once a man who called himself the world’s only Consulting Detective,” he tells her softly, “and a doctor who had a rather bad boo boo on his leg.”

  

* * *

 

 

The nurses know him by name, now, and they always come in with a smile and some encouraging aphorism. He listens to each _Good morning, Dr. Watson,_ and _He’s a fighter,_ and _It’s good you’re with him,_ and bites his tongue against a scathing retort. _If he were to wake up right now,_ he wants to say, _he’d be shocked that I was even here. That’s the kind of friend I’ve been to him._

One of the nurses, a lithe brunette woman named Katherine, breaks John out of his thoughts as she changes Sherlock’s IV bags one day.

“It’s a terrible thing, to see a friend hurt,” she says placidly, “but he’s pulled through before. No doubt he’s got fight in him.”

“You watch the news, then?” John asks, thinking back to when Sherlock was shot and he couldn’t go near Baker Street without being accosted.

“Oh, no,” Katherine replies, “I was just giving him a bath the other night and I noticed…well, I had to wash his back, of course.”

John’s brow furrows. “His back?” he repeats.

The nurse’s mouth falls open into a soft ‘o’. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything,” she says, and leaves hastily.

 

* * *

  

_Premise 1: I am far from adept at comprehending the spectrum of human morality._

_Premise 2: Since the day I met him, John has been my proverbial moral compass, and his assessments of right and wrong are nearly always sound._

_Premise 3: John has assessed me, and has found me to be an unfeeling monster._

_Conclusion: I am, most likely, guilty of being that which John has found me to be._

 

* * *

 

A little over a month in, he comes off the respirator and the doctors decide it’s alright for him to be moved from the ICU.

John is relieved, in no small part due to the fact that he’s been listening to the damn machine for so long that it’s started to sound like it’s speaking to him. Every _click, whoosh_ grates harshly against his ears like an accusation. _Your, fault. Your, fault. Your, fault._

“What happened to his back?” he asks Mycroft.

Mycroft’s face gets horrifyingly sad, and for a moment John reflects on how, in this stretch of weeks, he’s seen more emotion from Mycroft than he’s seen before in his entire life.

“That,” he says softly, “is a story for him to tell.”

 

* * *

  

It doesn’t really strike him that Sherlock might actually _live_ until the wires and tubes start coming out.

Every day, it seems, there’s a new reason to hope. These plates can come out; this cast can be replaced with a brace. This contusion has healed; these bruises have totally faded; this ECG reading looks almost promising. Steadily—slowly, god, so slowly—Sherlock begins to look less and less like humpty dumpty, and the doctors less like all the king’s men.

He’s never been a praying man, but it’s enough to have him on the edge of going to service. At this point, there must be something— _something—_ that intervened so that John could have yet another chance, even after he’s blown so many. Yet another miracle, though there’s no one more unworthy.

John isn’t a fool; he knows with sickening precision how likely it is that people hit by a car going at that speed will regain full mental capacity. He knows that there’s no guarantee that Sherlock _will_ wake up, and there’s no way of telling the full extent of the damage until he does.

Hope settles itself into the hollow of his chest, though, and refuses to budge even when reminded of these facts.

When he’s home, John soothes himself by working on a new project for when Sherlock wakes. He goes through that horrendous notebook, and for every “premise”, every word, he scratches out a contradiction in a new notebook. He soaks the thing in ink, marks down with bold strokes the reasons why Sherlock should and must stay, and finally, pens a new letter declaring just how wrong his original one was.

If Sherlock isn’t…if Sherlock can’t read it himself when he wakes, John will read it all to him. And make sure he understands.  

Once, while he’s working, Rosie lets out a particularly happy gurgle. When he glances over to her play pen he sees that she’s got hold of the plush bee Sherlock gave her upon her christening.

 _God, Sherlock,_ he thinks desperately, _please don’t leave before you can see this._

* * *

 

 

The day they take him off the medication that’s forcing the coma is the last day he clearly remembers.

He’s sure there are days, weeks even, in between; people fluttering in and out and heavy words laden with angst, but the day the coma becomes natural, life seems to hit fast-forward.

John knows he talks to Sherlock quite a lot during that time. A good deal of it is pleading (“ _Please, god, Sherlock, come back to me just this one last time,”),_ and there’s quite a lot of apologizing as well ( _“I don’t deserve to ask you for one more miracle. You’re not a miracle worker, or a superhero or a fortune teller; I should have known that from the start. You’re just my Sherlock; I’m so sorry I forgot that.”)._ John forces himself to swear that he’ll repeat everything he says ~~if~~ when Sherlock’s awake; if he didn’t hold back when he was spitting vitriol, he owes it to Sherlock to not hold back now.

When he looks back, though, not a bit of it fucking matters. What matters is, nearly two months after walking into the middle of the street, Sherlock Holmes opens his eyes.

And when he does…..yeah, John can’t think of a single fucking thing to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .......okay, so this is going to be longer than I thought.  
>  I do swear there's only one more chapter to go, though.  
> Here's hoping I got John's voice right; he's always been a bit of a tough one for me to emulate.  
> Comments are immensely appreciated, but seeing how midterms are coming up if anyone wants to ship me a crate of comfort food I won't say no.  
> All my love, as always.  
> \--Hollyesque


	3. Syllogism

It’s intriguing, how every time this happens it still manages to shock him that it _hurts_ so badly.

He’s not sure what he expected—his body was never going to simply “give up the ghost”; the ghost is going to have to be wrenched from it forcefully.

Perhaps he should have stepped onto the highway, he thinks idly as he vaguely feels blood pool under his cheek and screams echo in his ears as though from far away. Killed on impact, then. Would’ve been nicer.

There’s a sickening sensation of moving, a prick and burn somewhere on his body, and then Sherlock goes away for a little while.

* * *

 Alright, so it might have been a long while.

At least, that’s how it feels. He surfaces as though from underwater but instantly knows that he’s not _actually_ awake. He’s not dead, yet, either—well. At least he doesn’t think he is. Not much evidence of what death is actually _like,_ though apparently a bright light is supposed to be involved.

This is pure, uninterrupted darkness ( _See: black, combination of every existing color (see: color of the night sky (See: John likes the night sky because of the stars)))_ , and if he gave into such fancies he might say it’s comforting.

There’s noise, he thinks, but not much of it. It comes from very, very far away and if he was fooling himself he might say it resembled a familiar voice, but that’s absurd because the owner of that voice ~~hates him~~ can’t be here.

It’s a low, soothing hum, though, so he doesn’t complain as it lulls him back into nothingness.

 

* * *

 

 

Last time, he was trapped in the Palace. There were people talking to him, coaching him, desperately trying to teach him how to live.

There’s no one now—just an endless stretch of pitch black.

Perhaps he hit his head so hard that the impact brought the Palace to ground. Perhaps he’s so far gone that his mind isn’t even going to bother. ~~Perhaps he’s been abandoned by practically everyone so it’s impossible to imagine them asking him to live this time round~~

There’s the hum again. It’s syncopated, almost like it’s trying to form words, but Sherlock can’t make any sense of it.

There’s pressure, somewhere, too. He’s not sure how he knows, but—absurdly—something in the back of his mind tells him that this pressure combined with the hum means he’s _safe._

He lets that idea curl around him like a blanket as he drifts away again.

* * *

 This continues for an immeasurable amount of time, until suddenly, there _is_ a bright light.

Actually, it’s extremely bright. Practically blinding, _Christ,_ that’s bright. Instinct makes him want to fumble for a light switch, but sensation tells him he’s lying down and there won’t be one nearby.

 _This is likely it,_ his muddled brain tells him. _This is what everyone says it’s like; you’re most likely officially done for._

When he manages to crack his eyes open—god, his head is _pounding_ —the light is obstructed by an extremely blurry figure. He thinks he hears a gasp, but it’s difficult to tell past the ringing in his ears.

The figure moves closer, and for a moment Sherlock gives into fancy and wonders if it’s an angel sent to guide him on his way.

“ _Fuck_ ,” a man’s voice says fervently.

…..An angel with a bit of a mouth, then.

He knows with certainty that he won’t be able to stay here for long; the light is burning his retinas and his head is pulsing an earsplitting staccato and the temptation to slip back into nothingness is very, very strong.

As his eyes start to slip closed again, though, the figure appears to multiply and then suddenly there are several voices; a discordant symphony that grates on the ears. He thinks he’d very much like to return to the darkness and the pressure and the hum.

One of the voices rises above them all, and for just a moment, Sherlock recognizes the words: “Sherlock, no, don’t go back to sleep just yet. Come on; open your eyes for me, yeah?”

The shock of it is almost enough to wrench him back from letting the darkness drag him under, because he _knows_ that voice. Isn’t that….?

Isn’t…

Doesn’t that sound like—?

 

* * *

 

 

The next time the light appears, it resolves itself into the shape of a rectangular florescent, the standard for most government buildings.

The moment he realizes this, a canyon opens up in the pit of his stomach and he feels as though he’s about to fall into it. Oh, no _._

He scrunches his eyes closed against the thought; surely, the universe isn’t _that_ cruel.

“Sherlock?”

Oh, _no._

The universe isn’t that cruel, he thinks to himself, it’s _crueler._

“Sherlock, can you hear me? Could you open your eyes?”

 _I could,_ he wants to reply, _but I’d really, truly rather not._

He does, though, because that’s John’s voice and John gets quite literally everything ( _one more miracle)_ he asks of Sherlock.

John’s face does a sort of elaborate dance before Sherlock’s eyes before it finally settles into the shape of a retired army doctor. He must be leaning over Sherlock, because he looms so close that his breath ghosts over Sherlock’s skin like a whisper. When he sees that Sherlock has managed to focus his gaze, his mouth cracks into the widest smile Sherlock has seen since Rosie was born.

“Hi,” John says so softly that for a moment the word is lost behind the pounding of Sherlock’s blood in his ears.

There’s touch, somewhere, he registers belatedly—John’s calloused hand cradling his head, thumb rubbing gently over a specific area that Sherlock quickly realizes is the spot from which the pain radiates. The hair there, he realizes, feels inappropriately short judging by the way it behaves when John’s thumb brushes over it—he must have been shaved at some point. The implications of that are slightly frightening.

 It occurs to him that he’s been staring at John without saying anything for several seconds.

“…’Lo,” he manages finally, but it’s like broken glass, cracked and painful and he coughs around it for a moment or two after.

John’s hand presses gently to his chest to ease the strain, but _Christ,_ that hurts too. Come to think of it, there isn’t much of what he can feel of his body that doesn’t feel lit up like a Guy Fawkes effigy.

“Shh,” John soothes, “easy, you were on a respirator for a while. I’ll get you some ice chips later if you can stay awake.”

 _There’s a very small chance of that happening,_ Sherlock wants to say, already feeling sleep curl a hand out towards him in invitation. Just then, though, the door opens and a man Sherlock doesn’t know walks in.

“Mr. Holmes,” the new man says briskly, “good to see you’re back with us. Would you mind telling me the date?”

 _Doctor,_ Sherlock’s mind supplies, and then, ridiculously, _unnecessary, John’s my doctor._

“’Head’s fine,” he croaks, shoving down the fear that wells up again when he remembers the cold patch on his scalp. “Wanna go home,” he adds.

“Ah,” the doctor chuckles a bit, and John puts his face in his hands in Sherlock’s periphery, “I’m afraid I do need to check whether you’re of sound mind, Mr. Holmes. I’m also afraid you won’t be able to leave for…well. Quite a while.” He exchanges a weighted look with John. Sherlock feels indignation rise to his tongue and he wonders vaguely if he has the energy for a good strop, but what the doctor adds next expels that problem from his mind instantly.

“At the very least, we can’t release you until you’ve passed a psychiatric evaluation,” he says, and Sherlock’s blood goes cold.

 _No,_ he thinks with mounting alarm, _surely not._

“Why on earth is that necessary?” he tries, the words bitten off at the end as his chest spasms around a fresh set of coughs.

The doctor shifts from foot to foot, gazing at John as though passing the question to him. Sherlock tilts his head to the best of his ability to stare at John too, and sees with shock that the man is staring hard at his shoes, hands stuffed deep into his pockets and looking abhorrently sad.

“Sherlock,” he says finally, raising his eyes to meet Sherlock’s burning ones, “you’re on suicide watch.”

The world inverts.

Panic expands in his chest like a bubble, and he distantly hears both John and the doctor telling him to calm down as his heart monitor spikes, but he pays it no heed. His eyes are darting about the room, searching desperately for the final piece of evidence that will tell him what he already knows and hoping to god that it’s not there.

In the end, though, he lands on it: just there, sticking out from underneath John’s coat on a chair in the corner of the room, his notebook.

The universe is so, so cruel.

* * *

 The worst of it is: John’s _here_ now, and he’s got Sherlock as a literal captive audience.

John speaks every single moment that Sherlock is awake; chatters about everything and nothing, about Mrs. Hudson and Molly and Rosie and someone named Greg. As he continues to talk, though, and information about Sherlock’s condition filters through the babble, Sherlock is forced to watch as nearly every escape he might have had is closed off and tightly sealed.

When he learns that he’s broken his body so badly that moving independently will be not a privilege he possesses for ages if ever again, he realizes with mounting dread that it will be months and months (during which _anything_ could happen to John because of him) before he can even function alone.

When he learns that John has made arrangements for Sherlock to live with him and Rosie once he’s reached an outpatient PT stage ( _“Baker Street has all those corners and stairs, Sherlock, it’s just not practical,”_ ) Sherlock snarls under his breath. John pauses for half a second when he hears this and, alarmingly, he _grins_. It’s the smug sort of grin he used to do when he would deliberately grate on Sherlock’s nerves and finally got evidence that it was working.

It’s horrible because John’s company is something Sherlock has been positively craving for an immeasurable amount of time, and now that part of him is at war with the part that wishes on every star in the irrelevant solar system that the man would _go the fuck away._

John touches him, soothes him, speakes to him as though his letter was a figment of Sherlock’s imagination, and it feels like the cure has suddenly become the disease.

He knows without a doubt that Mycroft is the reason why John has the notebook (John wouldn’t go through his things unless at mycroft’s suggestion), so when his brother turns up one day for a visit Sherlock spends ten full minutes shouting at him.

Mycroft, damn him, takes all of it sitting down, staring at Sherlock gravely and not even lifting a finger in his defense as Sherlock verbally eviscerates every aspect of his existence. Finally, when Sherlock throws his head back against the pillows, spent and panting, his brother asks calmly: “Done?”

“No,” Sherlock spits petulantly, but it would seem he actually is done because a nurse comes in just then for one of his “frequent” observations.

“You have come to an erroneous conclusion, brother mine,” Mycroft says placidly as he rises and nods at the nurse, “based on critically-flawed logic. Doctor Watson and I are working to rid you of this fantasy you have convinced yourself of, and despite his numerous misjudgments, it would appear he has elected to be especially stubborn about this.”

 _Clearly,_ Sherlock wants to bite back, but just then Mycroft does something utterly perplexing: he leans over Sherlock’s bed rail and grips him tightly about the bicep of his good arm.

“Do _not,_ ” he hisses in Sherlock’s face, suddenly devoid of all placidity, “ _do that to me again,_ little brother.”

He straightens, pulls his vest straight with a jerk, and leaves.

The nurse says: “He cares about you very much.”

Sherlock replies: “Your boyfriend is seeing three other women behind your back.”

* * *

 Sometimes, he has to go into surgery to repair this or remove that, and he wakes with morphine lying heavy on his skull and pain poking sharply at his bones, and it seems very much like he will never _ever_ be free of this bed.

John must know whenever he’s scheduled for these procedures because he’s always there when Sherlock wakes up, even if he wasn’t when he was wheeled in.

“Go back to sleep,” he always says, running a hand through sherlocks hair ~~and that’s Sherlock’s favorite thing ever but he would die, just die, if anyone knew that~~.

Sometimes, if he wakes confused or thinking the game is still afoot, he’ll mumble something like “I have to,” but he never gets to the end of the sentence because he’s not sure what he has to do.

“No you don’t,” John always replies easily, and he shushes all of Sherlock’s protests until he falls asleep again.

 

* * *

 

 

After he’s been poked and prodded and tested and stitched together for what feels like an eternity, Sherlock chews up and spits out no less than four psychiatrists sent to “evaluate” him.

After the fourth leaves in tears, John walks in and stands looking at Sherlock with his hands on his hips for a very long time.

“Alright,” he finally says briskly, “so no psychiatrists. Just me, then.”

“What on earth are you on about?” Sherlock snarls, patience already thin from the _evaluation_ he’s just had to sit through.

“I’m on about you _planning your own death,_ Sherlock,” John says overtly, making Sherlock freeze; it’s been what feels like an age since he woke and neither of them have mentioned it since John said he was on suicide watch. “And if you thought we weren’t going to talk about that,” John continues, voice rising steadily, “because we _never fucking talk_ about _anything important,_ too bad. That’s not fucking on. I drove the man I called my best friend to suicide and I’ll be _damned_ if that goes unaddressed.”

 The hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck stand up at that, because that’s not it at _all._ He reels, trying to figure out _how_ John could have come to that conclusion—how he could have read through Sherlock’s careful logical reasoning and come away pointing at _himself_ —but he comes up empty. It’s absurd. It’s impossible. John is a _good man,_ he would _never_.

“I…what?” he asks, searching for the answer in John’s face and finding none, “John. _John._ That doesn’t make _sense,_ ” he insists, nearly pleading.

“No, it makes perfect sense,” John replies confidently, striding over to drop into his usual seat with a huff, “but we won’t talk about it any more today, you’re still hurting. Just,” he licks his lips, hand hovering in the air as though poised to snatch the words from the atmosphere, “just promise me you’ll listen to what I have to say,” he finishes.

“I said that I would,” Sherlock says without thinking. He regrets the words almost immediately when John’s face crumples, and for a moment looks like he’s in serious danger of starting to cry.

“Yeah,” John says thickly, “you did.” 

* * *

 

“You’re miraculously lucky,” the doctor tells him just before he’s discharged to the inpatient PT facility (no doubt the most posh one in Europe because Mycroft sticks his fat fingers into _everything_ ), “I’ve never seen a case like yours where the victim stood even a fighting chance of walking again. I’ve been told, though,” he suddenly darts a furtive glance at John, whose mouth is set in a firm line, “that you are prone to, ah, ‘ _mad dashes on rooftops’_ as part of your job.” He’s clearly attempting to maintain the detached, professional façade that doctors are meant to convey, but the way he shifts ever so slightly from one foot to the other has dread twisting Sherlock’s gut into a fist.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Holmes,” the doctor finishes, “that that’s going to be quite impossible from here on out.”

And, just like that, half of Sherlock’s Work vanishes before his eyes.

When the doctor leaves, Sherlock refuses to look at John. He thinks he hears John try to say something, but he makes no move to acknowledge it; instead he presses the button to recline his bed all the way, turns his head to the side, and doesn’t move for the rest of the day. 

* * *

 

He returns from the first day of physical therapy a trembling mess of a man, wishing for nothing more than to regain the ability to walk purely so he can walk directly off the edge of the nearest cliff.

“’S tough,” John says knowingly, “I remember my first day of PT after getting shot; there’s nothing quite like that feeling, eh?”

Sherlock is ~~sulking~~ sitting in the foldable chair they’ve placed in the shower during this conversation, trying to shampoo his hair one-handed while John rinses with the detachable shower head. He hums in agreement, still trying to reconcile his crave for John’s company with the incredible desire for the man to go away; he wonders when the balm became the burn as John’s fingers coax the shampoo out of his hair.

“You were lucky, though,” John continues, and Sherlock can feel harsh words rising up his throat like bile, “at that speed, that car could have easily left you paralyzed for life.”

“ _That long_?” Sherlock snaps, and then grinds his teeth together so he won’t say anything else.

John’s hand stills in his hair, his eyes on the back of Sherlock’s head boring deeper holes than the surgeons’ tools had. “Please don’t say things like that,” he begs softly.

Sherlock complies, and doesn’t speak until John’s gone home. 

* * *

 

“What happened to your back?” John asks the next time he visits, and Sherlock freezes, closing his eyes.

Of course. Of _course._ He was tired and sore and stroppy when he agreed to allow John’s help in showering; he’d forgotten, like an utter _imbecile,_ that that means John just spent almost fifteen minutes staring at his mutilated back. God, he is _losing it._

He opens his mouth—to say what, he’s not sure—and closes it again before he finally settles on, “Serbia. While I was…away.”

John exhales harshly through his nose, face doing that thing it does when he expects an answer but still doesn’t like it.

“Ah,” John clears his throat, “when?”

Sherlock frowns, failing to grasp how that’s relevant. “Just before I returned, I suppose,” he answers reluctantly.

“So,” John clears his throat again and Sherlock ponders whether he should ask if the man needs a lozenge, “right before I beat you bloody for an entire night, then.”

“I deserved that,” Sherlock assures him quickly.

“God!” John cries, looking about the room as though searching for salvation on the walls. “Sherlock,” he says desperately, voice suddenly low and intense as he leans his elbows on his knees, every muscle of his body screaming _this is important,_ “you do not deserve _everything_ other people do to you, you know.” He nods severely, eyes darting back and forth over Sherlock’s face in a way that makes him want to squirm.

Sherlock wants to disagree more than he wants just about anything else on the planet, but John’s got that stance he gets into when he’s gearing up for a good argument, so he relents and says, “Alright.” It sounds far less certain than he’d like.

John sighs heavily and puts his head in his hands, and Sherlock wonders if he’s perhaps said something wrong again.

“Sherlock,” John finally says after taking several deep breaths, and when he looks up his eyes have gotten alarmingly misty, “I am losing fucking _track_ of the apologies I owe you.” Sherlock knows immediately that he’s not just talking about Serbia anymore.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says tiredly, “It wasn’t your fault.”

 “Sherlock, you walked into traffic!” John cries as though Sherlock isn’t _perfectly aware, thank you._

“It was an accident.”

“Oh, I know. Just like you planned in your notes, Sherlock. That was about as much an accident as me shooting Jeff Hope was.”

“John, I’m serious,” Sherlock insists, “I didn’t mean to step off the kerb; I thought the light had changed.”

“Sherlock,” John’s voice becomes a sickening blend of sad and compassionate, “you don’t need to lie to me.”

“I’m _not!”_ Sherlock beats his good hand against the mattress, unable to do much else but grit his teeth against his frustration. “Honestly, John, do you think I’d be that thick, going to all that trouble to make it look like an accident only to leave behind a _detailed plan_ outlining just how purposeful it was?” he exhales harshly through his nose and throws his head back against the pillows, staring determinedly at the ceiling so he won’t have to look at John’s crumpled face.

“I meant to burn the book,” he concludes dejectedly, “you were never supposed to know.” But now John _did_ know, knew bloody _everything_ and it was all a waste. All that planning, all that preparation, all of it down the drain because of one frankly embarrassing slip of judgment,  and in the end it _didn’t even work._ Stupid. Stupid. _Stupid._

“Sherlock,” John says, breaking him out of his self-berating, “even if that’s true and you didn’t mean for it to happen that day, you would’ve done that or something similar at another time. Am I wrong?”

Sherlock heaves a massive sigh and contemplates taking his pain meds early so they can knock him out.

“No,” he admits eventually, and then quickly adds, “but that doesn’t make it your fault. “

“Christ, Sherlock!” John throws his hands in the air in exasperation. “How on _earth_ does that not make it my fault? How can you _honestly_ tell me this has nothing to do with me?!”

“Because it’s not _because_ of you, it’s _for_ you!” Sherlock snarls, raising his head to glare at John, and it would appear his patience has reached its depletion because the words keep coming like a broken dam. “There are very few things in this world that I would not do for you,” he says baldly, “I jumped off a roof to keep you safe and I would do it again, but the _second_ I reentered your life I continued my usual path of wreaking absolute havoc on it. I do not _want_ to die,” his voice cracks on that and what it does to John’s face is _inexcusable,_ “but I _need_ to be removed from the equation because the moment I enter it, the result is always painful. So I need to leave _for_ you, to keep you and Rosie safe, but it’s _my choice,_ John. My choices are not your fault.”

“And Mary’s choices aren’t _yours_ ,” John replies immediately, drawing Sherlock up short. “Mary died _for you¸_ so that you could _live._ That doesn’t make it _your fault_ either.”

“I…” Sherlock starts, but the words don’t come. He opens and closes his mouth several times, watching John’s face change from determined to a sort of satisfied smirk.

“Don’t be absurd,” he says after far too long, “of course that was different.”

“Did you push her in front of you?” John demands, suddenly standing with his hands on his hips. Sherlock gapes.

“What?” he asks, bewildered, “of course I didn’t; I would never—“

“So it’s almost like it was her choice, then,” John cuts him off.

“Well…” Sherlock hesitates, “yes,” he eventually agrees, “but if I hadn’t—“

“Did you put your hand over Vivienne Norbury’s and force her to fire her gun?” John interrupts him again, and now he’s got that tone he uses when he’s positively done with Sherlock’s antics.

“Oh, good _lord_ , John,” Sherlock sighs, “not every form of influence is _direct._ ”

“In some cases they need to be,” John declares with absolute confidence. “You act like every bad thing that’s ever happened is your fault just because you were _there,_ Sherlock, and that makes no sense. You’re a bloody genius, but you’re not so all-powerful that everyone around you has no autonomy.” He’s been inching steadily closer to the head of Sherlock’s bed, and when he says that he reaches out to grip the rail.

“You sound like Mycroft,” Sherlock accuses.

“Yeah, well,” John shrugs, unfazed, “Maybe we’ve been having the occasional heart to heart these past few weeks.”

“Oh, _God,_ ” Sherlock cries, throwing his head back again; the mere thought has it pounding even harder than usual.

John chuckles, and then he does that _thing_ he’s been doing that Sherlock can’t make heads or tails of: he brushes the fringe back from Sherlock’s forehead and swipes his thumb across the patch of hair that’s only just growing back from having been shaved. Sherlock cranes his neck to gaze up at John in question, but the touch is gone an instant later as John lets out a barely-audible sniff.

“Get some rest,” he says, “I’m going to get Rosie from Mrs. H.”

When he leaves, Sherlock stares with a furrowed brow at the door he went through until the pull of sleep drags him under. 

* * *

 

Throughout all this there have, of course, been people other than John.

Mycroft is a frequent and _infuriating_ presence, but every time Sherlock says something alluding to his death he looks ready to combust, so Sherlock avoids the subject unless he’s feeling particularly vicious.

Mrs. Hudson stops by several times, crying and fussing and then suddenly changing her tone to warn, “If you hadn’t broken it, I’d smack you upside the head, young man, don’t think for a moment I wouldn’t.” He doesn’t quite have a response to that because she’s got that motherly countenance that also makes her inexplicably scary.

Lestrade is there every now and then, stammering apologies for texting him, which makes no sense at all, but Sherlock tells him it’s alright anyway (even if purely to make him shut up).

Molly visited frequently while he was at Barts (probably because she was right downstairs), and at one point she says, “I wish I’d ripped that bloody letter to shreds.” He asks her what she’s talking about, but gets no reply.

It’s raining, the day John brings Rosie.

Sherlock almost can’t believe his eyes as the doctor walks in with her strapped to his chest, and then takes her out of her carrier and immediately place her in Sherlock’s lap.

“There we go, say hello to your godfather, love,” John says briskly.

Sherlock jolts as though electrocuted, hands flapping with indecision as she situates herself on his legs and tilts her head back to gaze at him as though she’s never seen another human being before. He’s inexplicably utterly terrified of touching her, suddenly reminded that she is feather-light and fragile as a bird and that if anyone decided to hurt her because of him it would be so, _so easy._

“I—John, I—“ He flails, panicked, but John reacts as though he deals with people who do not want to touch his daughter every day.

“Easy, it’s fine,” he placates, and then he reaches forward to raise her so that she’s lying on his chest, face pressed into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Then he moves Sherlock’s good arm so that he’s supporting her by her bottom, giving her foot a soft squeeze before settling back to admire the picture.

“See?” he smiles as though there is absolutely nothing wrong and Sherlock’s chest does not feel as though it’s ready to cave in on itself. “She knows you,” he adds, pointing at the way Rosie’s hand has taken hold of part of Sherlock’s t-shirt.

Sherlock looks down at the tiny human in his arms, sees everything good and innocent in the world staring back at him, and knows—just as surely as he did the day she was born—that he must preserve this.

He wants Rosie to live a life that doesn’t involve losing her mother and nearly her father because of what their _friend_ does for a living, wants her to live a life in which no one would dare touch her to get to him because they see the world as a series of weak links, wants her to _live._

Something in his face must show this train of thought, because John says, “I know you love her very much,” and, “I’m so sorry I took her away from you; I’ll never do that again, I promise.”

“I,” Sherlock starts, but his throat seals itself around the syllable and he can’t get another word out.

John _hmm_ s though, as though he understood. “Sherlock, truly,” he says after a moment, “how could you leave this?”

The words fall on him like a rockslide, knocking his breath away for a second. He _couldn’t_ leave this—this is his heart, everything he’s carefully cultivated over the years joyfully thrown out the window if only to see her smile once for him—and that, precisely, is why he _must_ leave it.

“Easily,” he replies, tongue heavy with the words because it _won’t_ be easy, it will feel like ripping his heart out string by string and then playing them like a violin while still dripping, “to protect it.”

 

Later, John steps out into the hall and Sherlock hears him call Mycroft.

“I think I might’ve made him worse,” he murmurs, low and tense in a way he must be hiding from Sherlock whenever he walks in the room.

After a beat of silence, John explains, “I took Rosie to see him for the first time, since…since. He loves her, you know? I thought…” he trails off, and Sherlock takes that moment to contemplate Rosie where she’s fallen asleep on his shoulder. She’s been that way since almost immediately after John placed her there, and he’s terrified of disturbing her.

She’s soft and sweet and _important,_ and that doesn’t follow from reason at all because she’s less than a year old and has made zero noteworthy contributions to society, but she came from John Watson, so Sherlock supposes that’s reason enough.

“—But I’m worried seeing her might have just…I dunno, _reaffirmed_ all that shit he’s convinced himself of,” Sherlock tunes back into John’s conversation, “That if he exists she’ll get hurt, rubbish like that.”

 _Not rubbish,_ he wants to chime, rubbing a tentative hand up and down her back. _Not rubbish at all,_ it’s such a real possibility that it makes him feel ill to think about.

“But how—“ John pauses to exhale what sounds like a deeply-stressed breath. “How do I break him out of that? It’s beyond what I…what I did now, he’s literally convinced himself his presence on the planet leaves everyone worse off! How do I—“ he cuts off suddenly, and then says, so lowly that Sherlock has to strain to catch the words, “Should I give him the book now? If it…if it doesn’t work, I’m scared that I won’t have much else to offer.”

“You have everything to offer,” Sherlock murmurs in the direction of the closed door, “Absolutely everything.”

* * *

 Sherlock walks. It takes weeks, _weeks,_ and three of his physiotherapists quit, but he walks. He walks, and then he goes home with John.

John is intolerable, but every moment spent leading up to his accident without John has been intolerable as well, so Sherlock hovers between being as scathing as possible and grabbing hold of the man’s jumper to ensure his constant presence.

Of course, this is made no better by the fact that John intermittently chooses to start an argument over whether Sherlock should stay or not.

“Why will it fix anything?” John demands one day, massaging Sherlock’s legs where they ache from yesterday’s PT session.

Sherlock sighs. “Because it is the only way to ensure your continued happiness,” he insists, too exhausted to elaborate.

John sucks his teeth. “Bullshit,” he declares, “that’s complete rubbish and you know it, Sherlock holmes.” He grinds his thumb into a particularly tight knot in Sherlock’s thigh and mutters “sorry” when Sherlock gasps, then he adds with absolute confidence, “ _You_ are the only way to ensure my continued happiness. You and Rosie, your presence in my life. _That’s_ the only way.”

 _What?_ Sherlock reels.

“I—no it’s not,” he says, bewildered, “that’s not true at _all_.”

“Why not?” John demands, easing Sherlock’s leg back onto the couch cushion and turning his attention to the other one.

“We’ve had this argument before, John,” Sherlock snaps, “I cannot _stand_ repeating myself.”

“No,” John says, “we’ve had the _I’m the cause of every problem because I exist_ argument, and you already know why I think it’s bollocks. So I’m asking again to see if you’ve got a better answer. So.” His physician’s hands pause, pressing into the muscle of Sherlock’s left calf, and he stares up at Sherlock with challenge in his eyes.

“Why not?” he asks again.

“Wh— _honestly,_ John!” Sherlock flaps his good hand in frustration, “Any _idiot_ could see that I’m the common denominator in every one of those situations! Even _you_ could tell as much!”

John’s brow furrows at that, and he leans back to sit on his haunches. “How d’you mean?” he asks.

“I _mean_ ,” Sherlock hisses, “that I am admittedly inadequate at understanding human emotions, but I am _very_ adept at reading reactions. _Reactions,_ John!” he insists when John doesn’t look impressed, “And your _first_ reaction was to remove me from the scenario so that I could do no further damage! _You did it first,_ John, and you’re acting like I’m insane for wanting to provide total insurance against my further influence! Honestly, John, _that_ is what doesn’t make sense. Why else would you—why—that is. You. You said it all in your…note.” He finishes lamely, the words dwindling from stream to trickle in the face of John’s expression. As Sherlock has continued to speak it’s progressed from confused to unimpressed to downright stony. Sherlock wonders, for the thousandth time, whether he’s said something Not Good again.

He clears his throat, forces himself to keep looking John in the eye, and refuses to ask the doctor to go back to rubbing the deep ache from his legs.

John stares at him for a moment, crystalline, brow furrowed into marble, and then he cracks it all as he says: “I fucking knew it.”

“What?” Sherlock asks, absolutely _loathing_ how frequently he’s had to use that word lately.

“I knew it,” John repeats helpfully, hefting himself back to a standing position so he can point at Sherlock from a proper vantage point, “I _knew_ that’s what this boiled down to. _Knew_ it.”

“John, knew what?” Sherlock cries, desperately confused, “Boiled down to what? What on _earth_ are you on about?” And quite all at once he hates this. He _hates_ it with every fibre of his being, hates constantly feeling wrong-footed and hates people not saying things outright to him, hates the bone-deep burn in his legs and hates that he seems to have lost his only chance to get rid of it, hates that John wanted him gone and then changed his mind the moment Sherlock tried to comply, and suddenly, horrifyingly, he feels as though he might cry.

It must be visible on his face, because John’s nostrils flare and he mutters a low, “ _Jesus,_ ” and then he’s suddenly back kneeling in front of Sherlock, this time gripping him by the forearm as though to ground him.

“Sherlock,” he says softly, “I’m going to talk to you like a child for a second.”

“You’d better not,” Sherlock spits.

“I’m going to,” John replies, unfazed, “because I need to be certain that you understand this completely. Sherlock.” He stops speaking until Sherlock mulishly meets his gaze. “People sometimes say things they don’t mean when they’re upset. They make decisions they regret later, and they hurt people who don’t deserve it.”

“Or they say precisely what they’ve been thinking the entire time,” Sherlock points out stubbornly, “and then later feel guilty because societal norms dictate one shouldn’t do that.”

“Will you do anything to believe the opposite of what I’m saying?” John asks, his frustration diluted by an inexplicable tinge of amusement.

“You are a good man, John,” Sherlock explains, and ploughs on when John opens his mouth as though to argue, “Even at your worst you do not wish death upon people, Moriarty notwithstanding. I prize reason above almost all else, though, and that is why I got the results I did even if my methods went against your moral code.”

“First off,” John replies briskly, hand tightening on Sherlock’s arm, “stop talking about your work in past tense. You’re not done. No, stop it,” he adds when Sherlock scoffs, “secondly, what if your reasoning was flawed?”

“Oh, don’t be absurd,” Sherlock says, “Of course it’s not; I came up with it.”

“You came up with it directly after one of your good friends died and your best friend outright blamed you for it.” John withdraws his hand and stands again, leaving Sherlock feeling oddly cold. “Forgive me for thinking there’s a _slight_ chance you may have been blinded by emotion.”

Sherlock doesn’t roll his eyes at that, but it’s a near thing.

John probably sees the urge, and he looks like he wants to comment, but instead he walks the short distance to the desk on the other side of the living room and rummages around in one of the drawers before pulling out a standard marble notebook.

“Yours was much fancier,” he says as he edges his way around a pile of Rosie’s toys, “but us normal people don’t generally have leather-bound notebooks lying around, so.” He stops in front of the couch and hovers, fingers tapping the cover of the notebook in hesitation as Sherlock eyes him warily. “I know I’m no genius,” he says, “but I do know a bit about syllogism. And I know how dangerous it is to make decisions based on syllogism. And I know you know that too. So.”

He extends the notebook with one hand. It’s like a metaphysical attempt at bridging the gap between them, an offering Sherlock has no idea what to make of, but he feels inexplicably like it’s imperative that he take it.

He extends his own hand to take it and thinks about doing the exact same thing, a million years ago, standing on the roof of Bart’s hospital.

John had been completely unreachable then. Now, he’s right here, but for some reason Sherlock still feels like he can’t touch him.

After Sherlock has taken it, John stares at the carpet and says, “You said people say what they really think when they’re upset.”

“I know what I said, John,” Sherlock sighs, but there’s no real bite to it.

“You also said you heard me when I spoke to your…that is. To your.” He clears his throat. “gravestone.”

“yes,” he admits cautiously, the notebook feeling uncharacteristically heavy in his hand.

“Do you remember what I said?”

Sherlock stays silent until John forces himself to meet his gaze, and it’s utterly infuriating that he can’t read anything there beyond nervousness that doesn’t seem to suit this conversation.

“You said I was ‘the most human human being’ you’d ever known,” he finally answers.

“Yeah.” John says, face pinched with the memory. “I was really terribly upset, then,” he continues, “Did I mean what I said?”

“I…” Sherlock pauses, breaking eye contact with John to stare at the marble notebook’s cover. He tries to picture the day in his mind—the way John’s face scrunched, the way his voice broke—and of course it’s all rife with emotion, but it does seem genuine. After all, no one was around that John knew of; he could have said anything and been satisfied that no one would actually hear and judge him for it.

“I suppose you must have,” Sherlock admits after a beat of silence that’s probably too long.

“I did,” John declares, nodding vehemently. “I said it again when I thought we were going to die in that tube carriage, and I’ll say it again now. You are not a machine, or a monster, or a freak, you’re not any of it.” He nods again as though to punctuate the statement. “You’re bloody brilliant, but you’re human as they come and you’d do anything for the people you love. And I keep…” he clears his throat, something he’s been doing with unnerving frequency lately, “I keep losing sight of that until I’ve lost you or I’m about to lose you, but I…well. I’ve learned my lesson this time ‘round, I think.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at Sherlock, chewing on his lower lip.

Sherlock thinks this is all entirely too intense for 5:00 in the evening, but he doesn’t say as much because John’s eyes look treacherously misty.

“…..Alright,” he finally says because the rest of his vocabulary seems to have gone on holiday.

John looks like he wants to say something else, but Rosie shatters the moment by announcing that she’s woken from her nap.

* * *

 

_Premise: John was attracted to Mary because of the element of danger he saw lurking beneath the surface._

_Premise: John was attracted to life with Sherlock because he missed his wartime lifestyle._

_Premise: John was attracted to the army because he craved the feeling of doing good under stressful situations._

_Premise: when John was discharged from the army, he felt so useless he developed a psychosomatic limp and an intermittent tremor._

_Conclusion: Never, not once, has John Watson given a fuck about safety._

* * *

_Premise: If John had not met Sherlock when he did, he would have been dead in under a month._

_Premise: If Sherlock had not jumped off the roof of Bart’s hospital, John would have been dead in under a minute._

_Conclusion: John is not the only one who saves lives. He is merely the only one who has ever received thanks for it._

* * *

“John,” Sherlock breathes, horrified.

John looks up from the book he’s reading and glances between Sherlock’s face and the notebook he’s got a white-knuckled grip on. Understanding dawns on his face almost instantly.

“Did you really not know?” he murmurs, brow furrowing softly in mild surprise, “I always thought you could tell. I thought that’s why you invited me along, that first time.”

“I…” Sherlock blinks rapidly down at the pages on which John has just boldly inked out how close he came to suicide. He swallows heavily. “There were…I suppose there were signs, but. I didn’t know it was that. That is, that…close.”

John nods as though he understands, even though Sherlock is fairly sure that what he said made no sense.

“It was, yeah,” he admits, then adds, “I never thanked you for that.”

“No need,” Sherlock replies immediately, confidently. He can’t figure out why John’s smile looks sad. 

* * *

 

_Premise: When Sherlock came back and interrupted my proposal dinner, he expected me to be completely alright with the fact that he was alive._

_Premise: The minute I began showing signs that I was upset, he recognized them and started apologizing._

_Premise: He has still not fully stopped apologizing._

_Conclusion 1: Sherlock is perfectly adept at comprehending human emotion ~~the wanker~~_

_Conclusion 2: What he’s absolute rubbish at is comprehending his own worth. He was insensitive in the way he told me he was alive not because he didn’t know how the death of a friend makes someone feel, but because he had no idea he was important enough to me for it to actually upset me._  

* * *

 

_Premise 1: If Vivienne Norbury had not wanted to fire her gun, she would not have fired her gun no matter what Sherlock said._

_Premise 2: If Mary had not wanted to jump in front of Sherlock, she would not have jumped in front of Sherlock no matter what anyone said._

_Premise 3: Though no one would be surprised if the bloody genius was the first to discover how to do it, telepathy is still very much a fictional concept. Sherlock can’t control people’s actions purely by being in the room._

_Conclusion: People make their own choices._  

* * *

 

He reads it all, sits on the couch as the sun dips below the line of horrid suburban houses and ignores John when he tries to get him to eat.

Towards the end, he comes across a folded leaf of ordinary ruled paper, titled _Sherlock_ in John’s scrawl on the outside flap. 

* * *

 

_Sherlock,_

_As I write this, my daughter is sitting in her play pen absolutely pummeling the toy bee you gave her for her christening, and you’re lying in a hospital bed surrounded by doctors who aren’t sure if you’ll ever wake up again._

_If you go before you can see how much she already loves you, before you can see that what you did to protect her means she’s going to grow into a stunning, brilliant, healthy young lady, I’m honestly not sure what I’ll do._

_You’ve spent half your time since you got back apologizing to me, for fucking everything. You apologized for things that weren’t even your fault, and I let you take the blame and I keep letting you take the blame and the absolute bitch of it is: I’ve done some god-awful things to you too. I beat you bloody directly after finding out that you gave up everything to save my life, I left you completely on your own and didn’t think once that you might not have had an easy time while you were away, I helped you heal from a near-fatal bullet wound and then I went back to the woman who put it there. And when that woman gave her life to save yours (just like you’ve given your life to save mine so, so many times), I blamed you for the choices of everybody else and then not only left you alone but made sure you_ knew _you were alone, and as a result I might not ever get you back._

_I need you to wake up. You don’t owe me a goddamn thing, but I need you to wake up so that you can read this. Even if you wake up and you’re in a state where you can’t read anymore, I need you to wake up so I can read it to you and make sure you understand that I mean every word of it._

_Mary’s death was not your fault. The woman was a trained assassin, for god’s sake, no one on the bloody planet could make her do anything she didn’t want to do. That night in the aquarium, she decided that she wanted to save your life, so she did. She made a choice and she followed through on it, because that was the kind of person she was. Her actions are not your responsibility, and her choices are not your fault._

_Rosie is your goddaughter and she’s always going to be your goddaughter, because you would give (and have given) absolutely anything to protect her. I’m not a praying man and you don’t give even half a bollock about religion in any form, but I know what it means to declare something before the eyes of God. The way the church sees it, you’ve got to be really fucking sure of yourself when you do something like that. I was sure of myself then, and I’m sure of myself now. She’s every bit yours as she is mine because I’m not sure there’s anyone else on earth besides myself who loves her more, and I’m honored that you want to be a part of her life._

_You aren’t a monster. I’ll never stop apologizing for calling you that, and I need you to know that even as I wrote the words I knew they weren’t true. You’re human, and you make human mistakes and have human feelings, and I’ll never (ever) forgive myself for forgetting that._

_You_ are _human. Seriously. You are. And you didn’t vow to be a superhero or some sort of fucking guardian angel, hovering over us protecting us from everything with your supernatural powers, you vowed to be there for us. And you have been, every step of the way, even when I wouldn’t let you. So please, please, please, fucking_ please, _Sherlock, keep being here. I don’t care if you think you can find a way around that vow by “metaphorically” being there through your brother or money or whatever protection you think your death will provide, I don’t care. I don’t care. I do. Not. Care. I don’t give even a fraction of the most high-flying fuck there ever was. You made a vow to be there, and I’m prepared to beg you to keep it._

_Mary gave me a lot of things while she was alive. Some of those things were the biggest fucking headaches I’ve ever experienced, but at the end of the day she chose to give me you. So, I’m going to be just as selfish as I have been this entire time and ask you this: Please, do not make me face the consequences of throwing that away._

_Please._

_—JW_

* * *

 

He reads it. Reads it again. Reads it a third time. Goes back to the beginning of the notebook, drinks in every bit of information John has given him, and then rereads the letter yet again. And again. And again.

He’s still sitting there with the notebook in his hands when John meanders into the kitchen the next morning. The space between them is a long stretch of silence as John sees him and realizes what he’s been doing all night, and the moment hangs there for a small eternity; snow in the first few hours after it’s fallen, before a single footprint has been made.

 “Alright?” John finally asks, shifting, nervous, like Sherlock’s answer to that question will decide whether Sherlock stays or not.

Sherlock means to say yes, but instead what comes out is: “I wanted _so badly_ to be able to protect you.”

“I know,” John breathes, breaking from his frozen stance and kneeling in front of Sherlock’s knees in what seems like the blink of an eye. “God. God, Sherlock, I _know_.”

“I’m—“ it’s inexcusable that his voice cracks on the word and even worse that he feels a lump rising in his throat, “—I’m not an angel, John. I’m _not.”_ John nods vigorously, desperately, gathers both of Sherlock’s hands in both of his own and presses his lips to them in a bizarre sort of kiss. “But I…I tried, I tried _so hard_ to—“

“Fucking Christ, Sherlock, I know you did,” John squeezes Sherlock’s hands and looks up at him, eyes over-bright and searching, “You did everything you could, fucking _everything,_ yeah? You’re still trying to do everything, but I’m begging you, on my bloody knees like a fucking daytime telly show, I don’t give a fuck, I’m begging you. Don’t leave. Don’t leave us, don’t leave _me_. Please, Sherlock.”

It goes entirely against reason that deciding to die should feel less like leaping off a cliff than the decision to live does. Fear still coils in his gut like a living thing, snaking around his chest to squeeze the breath from his lungs and whispering _what if_ in his ear, the fact that he couldn’t see Mary’s sacrifice coming leaving him shaky and uncertain. He thinks about slipping, about _missing_ things and paying the price for it, about not being quick enough or clever enough and losing John yet again as a result.

And then he thinks about being human.

He looks at John, feels the wrinkled paper of his letter where it’s gotten squashed between his leg and the cushion, and thinks about being _human._ About forgiving himself for being human, about trying his damndest and failing anyway because he was built out of bone and tissue and remains, despite his best efforts, eternally fallible.

He looks at John, and he _leaps._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking hell, this took forever. I almost split it into two chapters because it's _massive_ , but I decided against it because there didn't really feel like there was any good place to split it. Sorry I took so long with this one; I really wanted to deal with the problem I set up the right way, not the quick way.  
> If you'd like, you can squint a bit see this through a bit of a pre-johnlocky lens. I chose not to take it there, though, because I think John did love Mary and dealing with her death means he's not going to be ready for another relationship for a long time.  
> I may add a tiny epilogue in the future because I do love me my American happy endings complete with closure, but for now I'm gonna put a cap on this one. I truly hope you enjoyed.  
> -Hollyesque


End file.
